by J. L. Doty
She took a tentative step forward, unsure if she could walk without falling, and wanting to avoid such embarrassment. She took another step, then another, and began the short walk to the other end of town and her small hut. The intensity of the blade increased for a few steps, but as she passed the table occupied by the five strange Benesh’ere, it started to wane. It had done the same when she’d approached the inn earlier, but she’d been too addled to notice it.
She gasped, stopped and turned toward them; two had removed their hoods and hats, but the faces of three remained deeply hidden in shadow. She had to ask, had to know if they’d come across a dangerous talisman. But as she opened her mouth to speak, the two with their hoods thrown back stood and stepped between her and the other three, towering over her menacingly. She’d never been this close to a whiteface, never truly understood how enormously tall they stood.
“Did you want something?” the older one said warily, and his tone made it clear they only wanted to hear one answer.
She stepped back fearfully and gave them what they wanted. She shook her head, then turned, lowered her eyes and walked hurriedly down the street toward her hut. She’d been a fool to try to approach such barbarians that way.
~~~
Carsaris watched the Kull lieutenant—Qartan was his name—march across the floor, drop to one knee in front of Valso and bow his head. Behind Valso the little flying snake lay coiled about its perch.
“Rise, rise,” Valso said impatiently, waving a hand to emphasize the point.
Qartan’s leathers creaked as he slowly rose to his full height. He faced the king impassively, his left hand resting casually on the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist, the look on his face not even remotely human.
Valso said, “I’ve brought Salula back.”
At that, Qartan’s lips spread slowly into a broad grin. “I had heard rumors. I look forward to seeing him again. He is a leader I can respect, a strong leader, as are you, my king.”
Valso said, “I think you respect his ruthlessness.”
“Aye, my king, as I respect yours.”
“But you’ll have to be patient,” Valso said. “It will be some time before you work directly with him again. I’ve sent him on a special undertaking, something of great importance to me. And you can help, my dear Lieutenant.”
Qartan nodded and lowered his eyes. “Whatever you require, Your Majesty.”
“Salula will need a diversion, something spectacular to focus the entire Benesh’ere camp away from Norlakton. And I have devised the perfect distraction. And you, Lieutenant, are the perfect man—halfman, I should say—to carry it out. I think it will also be the kind of thing you Kulls enjoy doing.”
The halfman bowed his head slightly and said, “I enjoy serving you, my king.”
Valso smiled. “No doubt, that is because of the nature of the tasks I assign you.”
“There is that, my king.”
Valso turned and paced back and forth as he spoke. “Take however many men you need. I’ll leave you to be the judge of that. Travel incognito. Wear common livery, and let no one see that you are Kullish. Travel only in small groups and take enough supplies so you need not stop in any town or village for more. Do bring your Kull cloaks, but keep them hidden in your saddlebags until after you’ve acted. Then wear them openly, for they are your signature livery. We wouldn’t want some common thug to take credit for the deed I wish you to perform.” Valso stopped pacing and faced the Kull. “Do you understand?”
“I do, Your Majesty. And this diversion you have devised?”
Valso’s smile broadened. “That will be the fun part, at least for you halfmen, a vicious little display of your depravity. But with the diversion, you must also deliver a message to the Elhiyne.”
~~~
The kitchen maid hurried up the hallway in Penda, carrying a tray of food for BlakeDown. When the lord of Penda reviewed his accounts he usually took lunch in his study, and Chrisainne had learned it could be a good opportunity to catch him alone. She intercepted the kitchen maid just outside his study, held out her hands and nodded toward the tray of food. “I’ll take that into Lord BlakeDown.”
The maid curtsied and said, “Yes, milady,” and handed the tray to Chrisainne. “Will that be all, milady?”
“Yes, thank you.”
As the maid turned she had a little trouble suppressing a knowing smile, but she managed to keep it to no more than a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth. The servants, like all servants everywhere, knew everything that went on inside the walls of this castle. And had the girl been indiscreet enough to let the slight smile turn into an actual smirk, Chrisainne would have reported her to BlakeDown. She’d be quietly disciplined, and possibly dismissed.
Holding the tray in one hand, Chrisainne knocked politely on the door to BlakeDown’s study. “Enter,” he said, though the heavy planks of the door muffled the sound.
She pulled the latch and eased the door open. BlakeDown sat behind a large desk covered in parchments and ledgers, and without looking up he waved a hand casually and said, “Put it to one side. I’ll get to it in a bit.”
Good, she thought. He is alone. He sometimes called in one of his stewards to clarify some point or other in the accounts, but not today. Chrisainne crossed the room and put the tray down on the small table he’d indicated. Then she turned about and approached BlakeDown from the side. She curtsied and leaned forward, holding her face up toward BlakeDown. The gown she wore hugged her waist tightly and exposed plenty of cleavage. She summoned the most sensual tone she could manage and said, “Will that be all, my lord?”
BlakeDown started, looked up from his accounts and down at her. She didn’t miss the fact that his eyes lingered on her breasts for several heartbeats. He smiled, and she saw the lust in his eyes as he reached out to her.
She stood quickly and skipped out of his reach, saying, “Oh my lord, I am but a lowly serving maid. What is your intention?”
He laughed as she stepped around the desk, putting it between them. “I’m suddenly very hungry for lunch,” he said. “But the lunch I hunger for is standing before me.”
She must be careful. Once he started pounding his manhood in and out of her, she had little control of him. And while his lovemaking was crude and artless—the man himself even cruder and more artless—at least he was gentleman enough to acquiesce to her timing and not force himself upon her prematurely, though she’d never pushed that to its limits. It occurred to her now that his acquiescence was probably more self-serving than any gentlemanliness. She’d subtly taught him that if he allowed her to tease him a bit, to build his desire to an intense demand, he would find far greater pleasure in the act itself. But Valso had a very specific task for her, and she had to accomplish that before she allowed BlakeDown to descend into his mindless rutting.
“Eat your lunch, my lord. You must keep up your strength.” She let a little glint appear in her eyes. “There’ll be time for dessert afterwards.”
He laughed again, and turned to the tray she’d placed on the small table. He lifted a goblet and gulped some wine, tore off a hunk of bread and chewed at it. While he did so she crossed the room, stood behind him and massaged the muscles of his neck.
“You’re tense, my lord,” she said, carefully easing toward the subject Valso wanted her to broach. She dare not bring it up directly, for that would seem too inquisitive, too probing. “Is it that old witch Olivia? She seems to be a thorn in your side.”
“Thorn,” he growled angrily. “More like a sword, or a spear.” He turned and faced her, chewing on a hunk of cheese that soured his breath. “She turned the meeting of the Lesser Council into a circus with her proposals.”
She turned away from him and crossed the room to an open window that looked out on the inner bailey below. “We’ve all heard rumors, my lord. But the subtle ins and outs of such politics are beyond me.”
She heard his footsteps as he approached behind her. “Well don’t worry your
pretty little head about it.”
“I don’t worry, my lord, not with you in command of the situation. And you have your son at your side. He seems such a smart, intelligent, young man.”
“Yes, ErrinCastle, the only good thing that cow of a wife ever gave me. He’s organized the border patrols nicely.”
There, he’d brought up the subject of the border patrols, not her. “Border patrols, my lord? I thought the borders were stable and secure.”
“They were. But I worry those Elhiynes might try something, though I draw comfort from ErrinCastle. He’s chosen a select group of lieutenants to assist him, just the right men.”
She turned to face him, let him have a good look at her cleavage. “Oh really, my lord. Who might that be?”
She saw his lust growing. He rattled off three names, and as he did so she frowned, which peaked his curiosity. “What is it?” he asked. “I saw it in your eyes: a bit of doubt.”
“Oh it’s nothing, my lord. You know I know nothing of these matters.”
“No. What is it? I value your opinion.”
She hesitated and blushed a bit. “Well, I don’t know the others well. But young Lord Perrinsall, he seems . . . Oh, I shouldn’t say.”
“No. Speak your mind. I demand it.”
“Well then . . . Perrinsall seems a rather . . . indecisive young man. I wonder how he will fare when faced with those arrogant Elhiynes.”
BlakeDown’s eyes narrowed in thought. “You know, I think you might be right. He might let those Elhiynes walk all over him. I’ll have to personally review ErrinCastle’s choices.”
“Oh, pay no attention to me, my lord.”
He smiled and looked at her cleavage, so she lifted an eyebrow and said, “Perhaps it’s time for dessert.”
That was all the permission he needed. He lifted her skirt and petticoats, fumbled at his breeches for a moment, pressed her against the wall and thrust his manhood into her. She cried out, pretending to be in the throes of passion as he pounded in and out of her. At least with her petticoats raised up between his face and hers, she didn’t have to smell his sour breath.
Valso would be quite pleased. She’d sown exactly the doubt needed. And the next time she screwed BlakeDown she’d help him think of the right men for those border patrols, men Valso could count on to do exactly the wrong thing.
Chapter 18: A Deadly Diversion
Morgin allowed Mortiss to pick her own way up the steep trail, and when they reached the crest of the hill, he reined her in. He sat in the saddle and slowly scanned the panorama around him, the steep and jagged mountain directly in front of him, the foothills of Attunhigh behind him. Ahead and to his left the two spires now appeared exactly as they had long ago, which told him Mortiss now stood somewhere close to the route Morddon had followed after leaving Aethon’s tomb.
The spires had haunted him since he’d first seen them. His glimpse of them back then had been from a far different angle, and every time he thought of them he felt compelled to find the proper viewpoint, to prove to himself he could stand on the ancient route Morddon had followed. He’d hunted back and forth carefully all day to get the angle right, frequently striking out through the forest where no game trail led. Thankfully, the forest undergrowth grew thin and sparse this high in the foothills below the great mountain.
Six times now he’d ridden Mortiss out to find that back trail, and six times he’d failed after spending an entire day seeking back and forth. Each time he’d returned to the camp he’d felt even more compelled to find it.
The sun was dropping toward the horizon, and he knew he had just enough time to get back to the camp for a late dinner. He turned Mortiss about, ready to admit his sixth defeat, but a little to the right, almost directly ahead, an outcropping of rock drew his attention. He nudged Mortiss forward, had her follow the crest of the hill where no undergrowth impeded travel. As she moved at an easy walk, the shape of the outcropping changed subtly as the angle from which he viewed it changed. But not until he’d traveled about half a league did he recognize it, and then it came to him in a flood of memory. Its shape reminded him of the head of one of the great winged griffins, another feature he’d memorized so long ago, and now he knew for a certainty he’d found Morddon’s back trail. And with that realization he understood his mistake. He’d been searching for the features from below, always looking upward. But centuries ago, as Morddon had ridden down from Attunhigh, he’d memorized many of the features from above, looking downward.
“So what will I do now?” he asked Mortiss.
She spluttered, If you don’t know, then I can’t tell you.
In any case, the thought of backtracking Morddon’s trail was, at least on this day, a moot point. It would take days to carefully search out each memory, to find each feature he’d memorized so long ago, and then move on, searching for the next. He’d left the Benesh’ere camp with sufficient provisions for only a few days of travel, and he had a few blades to finish. He and the smiths had reached the final quenching stages on several, and he must be there for that. No matter how much that tomb compelled him to find it, the unfinished blades demanded even more that he complete their forging and give them life. No, he’d have to plan this more carefully, come prepared next time for a longer trek.
He’d used up most of the day with his hunting and searching, but a direct route back to the Benesh’ere camp should see him there shortly after dusk. It occurred to him that any indecision about whether or not he would return and find the ancient crypt had now vanished; or perhaps someone else had made the decision for him long, long ago.
~~~
Morgin and Chagarin watched Baldrak carefully chip the dried clay off the blade, while the other smiths had paused at their forges and anvils to look their way. The final quenching had gone well and the blade appeared to be in good shape. They must still mount the cross-guard, wrap the tang, sharpen, polish and buff the blade, but if testing proved the quench had truly gone well, the hard part was done.
“Daddy, can I go to the plainface town with LillianToc?”
At the sound of the girlish voice they all looked up from their concentration on the blade. Felina stood just inside the door to the Forge Hall, LillianToc hovering behind her.
“Go ahead,” Baldrak said. “But you have to help your mother with dinner, so be back early.”
Felina turned and skipped out the door, shouting, “Father says I can go.”
Morgin and the two smiths returned their attention to the blade. Baldrak picked up a pumice stone and carefully scraped the last vestiges of clay from its surface, exposing the slight gradations of color due to the many layers formed during the striking of the steel. He stroked the edge a few times with the stone and said, “The edge is good. Very hard. It’ll be some work sharpening this blade.”
He handed the blade to Morgin, who accepted it in both hands. The steel in the blade whispered an incoherent cacophony of voices at him. Morgin turned, marched across the Forge Hall, and with all the smiths following close on his heels, stepped through the door into the bright sunlight. The eyes of every whiteface in the vicinity turned his way and all activity ceased, for they all knew a blade would be born today, though the question still remained if it would be born healthy, or stillborn.
In the sunlight, Morgin examined the blade carefully, and slowly the cacophony of voices calmed, though still they could not speak as one. He gripped the tang with his right hand, then lifted the blade and held it high, let the stark light of the midday sun glint off its surface. He raised his left hand and flicked his middle finger at it, tapping it with his fingernail, producing a very faint and dull ping. But the sound reverberated in his soul and he embraced it, took it into his heart and amplified it, and the dull ping grew into a sharp, clear, loud tone. He amplified it further, noticed in the corner of his eye that many of the whitefaces had covered their ears with their hands, painful grimaces on their faces. One-by-one he spoke with each voice, like a choirmaster tutoring the individual
members of his choir. Deep within his heart he sang the note this blade must sing, and nudged each voice toward that single, pure tone.
He wondered about this strange choir of voices. If he couldn’t get them to harmonize properly, was it a flaw in the SteelMaster, or merely a flaw in the blade? Two days ago they’d finished a blade, and Morgin had taken it out for testing. The smiths and all the whitefaces thought he merely tested each blade as it had been made, but he had learned through trial and error that all blades were incomplete after the final quenching, and in them he always found this untrained choir of untrained voices that needed a master to guide them. Two days ago that blade had failed, and he’d finished holding melted pieces of flawed steel. The entire camp had mourned his failure that day.
One-by-one he encouraged the voices like a parent teaching a child, as AnnaRail had taught him, demanding, but never appearing to demand, finding the strength of each voice and helping them to understand themselves. He must be a bit irrational since, once introduced to a sword, he quickly came to think of each voice as almost human, but then most people had always considered him a bit odd. Or perhaps he was just a SteelMaster, and most people didn’t—would never—understand a SteelMaster.
One-by-one the voices came in line with the tone they must sing. It reached a grand crescendo, and then he allowed the tone to die away, let it drift on a netherwind. And as the last faint remnant of the blade’s note echoed through his soul it whispered to him in a single, clean voice.
No one could teach him what it meant to be a SteelMaster. He’d contributed bits and pieces of forgotten lore to each step in the process of making a truly superior blade, the forging, striking, shaping and quenching, and the smiths had greatly valued such bits of information. But that had all been no more than pieces of forgotten knowledge of the craft. Whereas quelling the cacophony of voices in the freshly quenched steel, appeasing their fear and disunity, that he had discovered purely by accident, that only a SteelMaster could do. And once treated with the magic of the steel, such a blade struck true even in the hand of a less experienced swordsman, for such a blade struck with a single voice.
